I was bullied a lot in elementary school. Like, everyday, all day, not just by classmates but by teachers. And it was the 70s and 80s, there just wasn't as much focus on teaching educators about compassion and empathy and self-esteem and how that affects learning and development. I was actually quite bright, but the gifted teacher didn't want me because I was so hyper. My parents loved me and I knew that, they told me every single day how beautiful and amazing and special I was. But every time I walked out the door of my house and in through the doors of that school, I was immediately getting a different message. And soon I started to believe that message over the one my parents told me.
Because I understood fundamentally, they were my parents, they loved me by default. But they don't realize how worthless I am, because that's just how parents are, I thought. They are biased and blinded by their child that they created. These other people see the real me, the unbiased picture, and they tell the truth. I am stupid, I am dorky, I talk too much, I am a spazz, I am worthless. These were facts to me. I "add no value to the class, I only take away from other students by distracting them and keeping them from learning." I was told that, point blank by a teacher in 4th grade. She was young and had Farrah Faucett hair and dated a professional athlete, so clearly she knew what she was talking about. That was the message I understood.
So I got louder, and more obnoxious, because that was the role I was told to play. I was constantly seeking attention in whatever form I could get it from people at school, kids or teachers, anyone. My parents refused the school's recommendation to medicate me. I don't blame them. It was the early days of Ritalin, they worked with the information they had. And that information told them a 9 year old, 50# kid shouldn't be taking a Class II drug. Hindsight is 20/20, I don't judge.
Another decision my parents made to try to combat the obvious emotional toll all of this was taking was to send me to therapy. It was a small group setting, with two other girls who came from abusive environments that included mental and physical injuries inflicted by others and self-inflicted, like cutting. I pitied them, sometimes openly, (ADHD doesn't come with filters, you know) because I didn't really understand how to absorb that kind of abuse. Developmentally I couldn't wrap my head around it.
The only thing I learned in therapy was that my life was not that bad. That other kids had bigger problems, and that I should just shut up and take what I was given. And I didn't want to be friends with those girls anyway. Their lives were a disaster, I was just a girl from the suburbs who couldn't sit still or stand up for herself, I didn't have real problems. It was all in my head anyway, right?
So, yeah. Therapy was a bust.
Finally my parents made another decision. After 6th grade we moved south to a new, growing school district, to give me a new start where nobody knew me. Perhaps I would be able to find people who believed in my worth like they did, who would lift me up instead of crush me. It was the best decision they ever made on my behalf. Hands down.
I took it seriously, my middle school fresh start. By then I understood what was offered by a new group of kids who didn't know me. I worked to change my personality. I tried to put a lid on the spazz girl inside. I learned to be self-deprecating and funny, using myself as the joke, because I found that if you put yourself down first, others wouldn't. Blonde jokes worked the best. I played myself as ditzy and silly, instead of stupid and dorky. Ditzy is cute, I learned. If you said something stupid but then giggled, like the cheerleaders did, teachers would look at you with exasperation but not say anything. They didn't put you down. Sometimes I was mean to the kids in worse shape than me, but I didn't like the way it felt. I knew what those pained expressions meant. I sometimes tried to make up for it when nobody was looking. Then I decided ignoring them was better. I pretended they didn't exist.
And it mostly worked. By high school I was happily in the middle of the food chain, I had several good friends that I still have today, a merry band of goofballs who supported each other and told ourselves we were awesome. Each of us at any given time was smart, or pretty, hilarious, fearless, or talented, pick two. We stood together like a junior Justice League to deflect the attacks.
I also found my people in choir and theater geeks, and stoners. (The stoners were great, they happily accepted anyone as long as you had a few crumpled up bills for another dimebag, or maybe a bag of chips.) (This was back when pot was just pot, it wasn't laced with other, scarier things. Now, except in legalized areas, you have ZERO IDEA what you're actually getting in a small bag of marijuana. Don't do drugs, kids.)
In theater, with the performers, I learned I didn't have to be me, I could be somebody else! Someone written in a script, a character. I could be a princess! It was a magical discovery. And then I learned I could sing. I could hit high notes that nobody else could hit, apparently, which brought open mouth stares from the choir teacher, impressed nods and positive attention from everyone else. My high notes even had a special title that nobody else had: Coloratura Soprano. I was prized for my high notes. Classmates and teachers alike told me I was special, but also please stop talking, For the love of God.
More singing, less talking. Got it.
I flew under the radar of the mean girls as much as possible, though the heady ego that came with my newly discovered high notes sometimes led me to fly higher, drawn to them like Icarus to the sun. But I'd fall scorched to the ground pretty quickly. Sometimes I stood up to them, if only temporarily. By now I had enough confidence that I sometimes deflected their gaze off the girls who couldn't defend themselves, who were lower than me on that ever present, unforgiving food chain. The same girls I had hurt or ignored in middle school, in some cases. Sometimes the bullies were impressed that I had the guts to stand up to them, even in my weird, self-deprecating, court jester way. It made me stronger, righting the wrongs of middle school, reducing my asshole footprint. It made me happier, and even more confident.
The point that I want to make here, and there is one, is about what it really takes for kids to survive all this. The bullying and mental torture that I survived has colored every corner of the way I parent my children and engage with kids in my classroom. You might think that all this has made me the craziest helicopter mom alive, but no.
No really, I promise, although I am pretty quick to send a WTF email to a teacher, always tempered with an out, like "this is the story I got and we all know my kid isn't super reliable with details, so please give me more information."
Anyway, here is what it takes: it takes tools. I had to make my own tools. And what I discovered as a parent, an adult, even the teacher in this scenario, is that we have to be the ones to give kids the tools. To survive as a soldier at war, you need a weapon. To survive a car crash you need a seat belt. Kids need tools to fight bullying.
I try to give my kids tools to deal with these situations; where to go, who to tell, what to say, how to look for and find friends. And I try to listen, so that I can be a tool for them; give them more skills and tools for success, in addition to filling their little buckets with encouraging words. Verbal support means nothing as soon as they exit the door, because I know what awaits. It isn't that bullies take small withdrawals from the bucket like milk money; it's that they turn the bucket upside down. You can't fill an upside down bucket. Somebody has to flip it back over.
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Back in my elementary school of horrors, the lunch lady used the special education kids as a behavior reinforcement. Meaning, if you were naughty or couldn't stop talking between bites of shingle pizza or just generally annoyed her, she sent you over to sit at the table with the "retarded kids." (Again, early 80s. This was the terminology.)
Guess who drove her crazy? One guess.
I spent a lot of time at that table. Initially I was terrified of it, not just for the public humiliation but because those kids were big, loud and unpredictable. (The SPED program at the time utilized space where it existed, and my school had room, so those students were sometimes older than typical elementary kids, therefore bigger.) But I also learned a lot, just by watching their teachers and paras engage with them. I learned empathy, compassion, tools for de-escalating, and that they weren't actually that unpredictable. Cognitively and intellectually disabled people don't have filters, if they are happy, it's clear. If they are in pain, you know. In fact, if you paid attention you could see what was going to set them off. And I learned some tools for mitigating that, sitting around that lunch table, eating shingle pizza and trying to scoop up loose corn with a fork.
I choose that table, as an adult. As a teacher I am super tuned in to kids with special needs, especially ADHD, sensory integration disorder, and high-functioning autism spectrum. I can spot somebody who needs a little extra care in about three seconds. I'm able to quickly evaluate and offer some type of solution, or at least a short term fix: here have a snack, go take a break, be my helper and run an errand to the office, come sit by me, etc.
Overall, I keep an eye on those for whom school is hard, with all the sitting still and the not talking and the navigating the food chain. And I shower them with positive attention, tools, and brain breaks. I make sure their bucket is turned right-side up so that it can be filled. I shower them with love. Because their parents are not wrong. They are beautiful, they are perfect, they are amazing. And they are worth it.